To work is good, to eat is better!

This is harder to do than I anticipated... writing is one thing.. but to keep a daily schedule... oof!

Listening to a dumb sci fi book about people vs spiders vs ants.

So basically, Children of Time is about humans trying to escape a dying Earth and find somewhere else to live. A scientist named Avrana Kern sets up an experiment on a planet where she’s supposed to genetically enhance monkeys so they can eventually become intelligent. The problem is that things go very wrong, Kern gets stuck in space, and the experiment doesn’t exactly go according to plan.

Fast-forward a ridiculously long time, and the species that ends up becoming intelligent is spiders, not monkeys. Meanwhile, a group of human colonists on the a spaceship named Gilgamesh is traveling through space looking for a new home. So far, I’m basically following two timelines: humans trying not to go extinct and spiders accidentally becoming the next big civilization. And apparently I’m supposed to just accept that giant sentient spiders are the protagonists now.

Sometimes it's engaging. Sometimes it drones me to sleep.

Dream.

I dozed at work. just sitting at my desk and nodded.

Had strange dream about going somewhere in a trailer.

then I had to leave the hospital and so rode a motorcycle. I do love riding a motorcycle.

I was giving a news interview to a woman in a van as I rode.

I got cocky an telling her how you ride a motorbyke, then my sleeve hung on the throttle and I started speeding out of control.

AWAKE!

GET TO WORK!

PRAISE BE!!!

We're not approved! But making GREAT PROGRESS! 8 of the 9 are done and ready to show, never mind 6 of the nine are done. Client wants to tweak before we show. 🙄

Okay, okay! Keep forging ahead keeper! The light spins on its own, no need to worry your big fat head.

5:30 and doing just fine!

Today's actually a pretty solid day. Could have used a little more sleep. Listened to a podcast on The importance and benefit of good sleep.

Not just mortality, it's about memory, emotional stability, etc etc.

https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/the-rich-roll-podcast/id582272991?i=1000521073910

So, eat food, not too much, mostly vegetables, drink water, sleep.

The best things in life really are free (or at least affordable).

Visiting Mack

I didn't have time, but I'm SOOO Glad I went to see the Micks. Ng knew she was sick and built a little care package. What a lovely visit. He's a big hulking quiet guy who just turned 70. So their in that phase of life where everything is breaking.

No one knows WHAT is wrong with his wife. after pandemic, she just started losing weight. Likely: too many meds. Over doctored. The place where we currently live is mostly retirees and the doctor to human ratio is ridiculously high, while the quality of care is ridiculously low.

😕

Mick was a truck deriver his whole life. When I knew him he drove a cement mixer truck. He sweats profusely when he is nervous. And LOVES working out. That means lifting weights. he's been trying to get me to come over and lift with him for the last 4 years. There's really no reason I shouldn't!

Except, weights! There's something about cardio and jumping rope, pushups and crunches that i like. I associate weightlifting with high school. And highschool was not peak Keeper.

I was awkward, an artist and a Bible lover. Friend-zoned by all the girls. Which, in hind sight, was probably for the best. I liked the attention even if it wasn't the kind that the average high school boy dreams of. In fact, I'd argue it was better. Being friends with someone lasts and lasts. you never stop being friends. But romantic relationships have a way of getting complicated.

Amazing. Earth shattering. Knee-quavering. In fact, the outrageous wonder of a truly soul-mate-on-soul-mate relationship is just the sort of power that makes it untenable. Something always breaks. You do something wrong, or they do. It's usually you. Because you can't keep your fat mouth shut, you're just lost in this maelstrom of emotion and no one ever taught you that restraint is sexy. You just dive right in without checking the depth.

Sigh.

Am I still talking about high school?

know what I ALWAYS despised? Mike Demone and guys like him. Yes, Fast Times at Ridgemont High. Yes, in fact there was a whole film outside of Phoebe Cates' famous swimsuit moment. Sometimes hilarious, often sadly true. But, I never could stomach the opportunism and casting aside of Stacy Hamilton. Poor Rat. I was a Rat.

Always a bridesmaid and all. We even had a restaurant like the one Rat takes Stacy too on their big date. What a nerd.

Mick was worried that a friend of ours had started smoking cigars. I know, for a lot of ppl, it's not that big of a deal. But for our little family, no one smokes.

Mike wants to confront Per about it. But I encourage him to just have a friendly conversation, that often things aren't what they look like. And since Mick is relaying this story based on an image he saw on facebook, I definitely encourage confirming he saw what he thinks he saw.

Later this evening, sure enough, I get a call that it was an old photo.

Do not judge, lest ye be judged.

Mike went on to tel me that he's got 8 grandchildren, the youngest is 28. None of them have ever had drivers licenses. HOW do you do you do that?

I mean? WHAT? Really? Holy cow! And the 28 year old has owned three vehicles. IDK, it's nuts. I got my DL at 15, hardship. Both parents worked—I forget what the exact hardship was except that it was hard not having a DL.

Before I got it, my dad helped me build a care from a wrecked 1983 cutlass Supreme. I was so proud of that car. Powder blue, with dark tinted windows. the power plant wasn't anemic, but it wouldn't win any races. The Cutlass Supreme was a luxury sedan in a couples body. it just rolled and floated around.

So by 16, I was employed, licensed and had wheels.

Today, I guess they just do it all electronically.

I comment on the 3 cats playing in his shady front yard. He tells me that two fo them are ferrel, that ferrel cats CANNOT be captured/caught. I'm dubious on the point, but enjoy the silly anecdote-ed-ness of the concept. I'm sure they are very hard to catch. But anything can be caught.

Except the dumb cricket that was so charming 5 hours ago. Not it's driving me nuts. It should at three am.

Before leaving, Mick has some suggestions on where to buy meat. We both agree that the grocers and the big box stores have the worst steaks and burgers. I offer to go in ½ or 1/3 on a whole butchered cow if he wants to do the legwork of finding one and a butcher.

The last few steaks I bought here in Dust Merdian reminded me of what I could find in Spain and France. Unimpressive. Overpriced.

Ireland though... Ireland knows how to cut a steak.

Corner Store Flora and Fauna

After visiting Mick and Im, we stopped at the local corner store for a cold drink. It was worth the stop. The place was overrun with interesting characters.

Leaned against the counter was an old coot-of-a-man. Not poorly dresed but not well costumed either. Typical Texan attire: boots, blue jeans and a plaid button up shirt.

I decide it's possible I may be able to start a Bible discussion with him. So I comment on his posture.

“You, look like a man who's been out enduring the heat. You've got that lean of exhaustion!” I smile at him, thinking of my father, who I've seen countless times sweaty and exhausted and using whatever solid object is closest to to stabilize himself from weariness.

“Yee-ah, ahm deng nar' dun beatn intuh tha grownd” His accent is SO thick I have trouble deciphering what he is saying.

I smile and we trade light commentary while I realize he is almost not speaking English.

Cast of King of the Hill (bookout) Guy dressed like Rocket Icecream Moorlocks escaping heat Mexican kid with bandana AND a hat, but pants falling off. Black girl with freckles full of energy Tired and hot worker with beard that twirled like goat horns starting conversations about the heat already worried about the cold Broken soda machine Slow slide of

My Friend the Cricket

11:30 – A cricket has made his way into my studio. He starts his concert slow and creaky... like violinist tuning her instrument. But he is in full song-mode now. I'd stop him and ask for his advice, but I don't want to interrupt the flow.

Perhaps we can speak after the concert.

3:30... exhausted. Cant' stop thinking... too long chained to your computer

I'm going to sleep to dream dreams of worlds and doorways to other worlds and strange creatures warping reality.

At least I got to screen Castaway and The Firm during my hours of retouching.

#deardiary

Home | About | Full of Stars | Contact | HeartCartography

“May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching.” – The Lantern Keeper

Some days you fight the grind. Some days you just ride it out.

Jump to: The Gone Day | The Grind | Dreams | Black Lines

Rocky Days

Today is a WORK day. Up at the crack of dawn. VERY strange dreams. VIVID.

1. Bank robbery, but everyone was friendly adn I knew all the tellers.

2. Rednecks in the bayou. Good ol' boys take us out into the sticks and show us a world class old European city on the banks of a canal.

And the day is gone.

Somehow I slipped to 6pm. Still grnding.

The wife is listening to Ronnie Milsap covers in the living room I missed the artist covering him. He sounds good.

Daydreams About Night Things

Ain't No Gettin' Over Me

What a Difference You've Made

Wonder if she's thinking about me. :–)

When I ask, I get a warm hug. She's reliving her youth.

The Grind

The churn never ends. I forgot what it's like to be chained to my computer. But! We'll get there. 6 images turned into 11. All due tomorrow. Really? Okay...

SO, turn up the radio and press on 'till dawn.

And don't forget to eat.

Up, down, turn around Please don't let me hit the ground Tonight, I think I'll walk alone I'll find my soul as I go home

Dream 260810

Rednecks, drywaller

Drive me and Ng out to their house on a canal in the rurals north of Dust Meridian. A place I've been many time between the river and the highway. It is an old austere hilltop. One lane roads. House is like the one in Southerns France (riviera. Plains but nice, it courtyard. Pitch a concert on barges. Like Mardi Gras. Rednecks push back because there's no room for pedestrians to drink and flash people. Only balcony room up here.

Complaining about cost of living

Discussion about the Queen of Swords. They know her and fear her stare.

Flood made everything purple, even the people. The hair i purple, the wreckage is purple. I marvel at. how completely covered everything is.

Watching shark videos on the guys phone. He has a fancy shroud that blocks out spill light in bright environments (outside). and a fuzzy mic.

They make YouTube content. Try to be funny. But spontaneous funny, not doggedly overscripted funny.

Ratchet old guy and his lady. A single young man.

Drive out early. Come home late. Take a shower. Get water everywhere. I put down copious towels to sop up the inches of water.

They show me the interior of their house. Very proud of the drywall work they've done. Want my approval for some reason. I tell them I used to be able to carry drywall two sheets at a time.

Guy drives an old powder blue Model A. Ng wants to drive. I worry she'll fall asleep.

I wake up. I immediately start to write this down. I try to go back to the semi lucid dream I had about the bank the night before. Robbing, but knowing everyone. But it's fuzzy at best.

The Same Black Line

I had my world strapped against my back I held my hands, never knew how to act

And the same black line that was drawn on you Was drawn on me And now it's drawn me in 6th-Avenue heartache

—

It's turning into one of those nights.

The ocean oceans until the night falls then it turns east to go home When it rests its weariness on the west. the cliffs, the stone and the grass— Ireland's patient isle welcome it home.

It reaches.

And reaches.

But Ireland cannot not follow.

So the ocean pulls away, silver with wanting, only to return at dawn and try again.

This is why the West coast of the emerald isle is beautiful:

the sea has spent forever missing what it loves.

The Midnight Hour

I always think i'm going to get more done than I do. I am a terrible time manager.

I'm a closet Rihanna fan I guess. This track always gets me goin'!

[For my money this SNL skit with Shy Ronnie is peak Rihanna

Farewell to yet another day. 2:30am... 4 hours of sleep await! Tomorrow HAS to move forward.

Aloha.

#deardiary

Home | About | Full of Stars | Contact | HeartCartography

“May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching.” – The Lantern Keeper

The be never stops, no matter the color of the honey.

Jump to: Blue Honey | Judgement | Whiling | Mars Ascends | link 05 | Link0 6

SUNDAY 5AM

Today... is a day. Not a great day. A challenging and unexpected day.

It started with early frustration.

Waking at five and simply existing, slipping in and out of lucidity. Intense dreams kept bleeding into reality. Moon was still up, brilliant as a day star, bright enough to illuminate the Well.

The dreams wouldn't let me go.

Hands. Fingers. Toes. Whispers and shouts. Nothing unpleasant. Just intense, insistent, almost physical.

I woke carrying a hunger that had nowhere to go.

Someone was there in the dream, close enough to touch, willing and warm, while the rest of the world seemed impossibly far away. Another presence lingered at the edge of it all, unconcerned, as though none of this had anything to do with her.

For a while, the dream kept asking.

I kept refusing.

Apparently moon was going to have to learn to live with disappointment.

Byt 6:45 she started to stir. And quickly sprung to life. This is new. When she left before school, I rarely saw her before 9, more usually 11. Today though. Life found her early. Apparently getting up for an 8 hour class every day for a week shifted some patterns.

But she was grouchy. Don't like that.

A burning orange ray of sunshine shot through the gap in the curtain and filled my retina with a lovely warmth but blinding light. Sitting up, I started to describe the dappling patterns, the bees at the roses. This will only last moments, glorious works of art like this cannot sustain.

The best things in life are temporary. Thankfully, they are also cycles.

I wonder if the greedy could commodify the glory of a sunrise, they would? Box it and brand it, selling on the shelf of a big box store. The rich could buy deluxe versions and vintage versions of sunrises over famous events.

This is a rich man's sunrise enjoyed by a pauper who feels glorious and rich as the light crawls down by slumped body on the edge of the bed. I want to run out into the wet grass and soak it all up.

But Oscar, she's not having it. She wants to 'talk'.

I, a master communicator, negotiate a kinder space. We read a chapter about Abraham and Sarah. Half brother and sister who married and set out on adventure. The story describes Sarah as a real stunner. The prettiest in all the land. I comment on the illustration; it show Sarah dutifully by her man. Not a worry in the world. So much love and respect in her heart. She clearly very deeply esteemed that man.

I dont' deserve this level of admiration. But I desire it.

Deeply.

Is it possible that it is what I desire most?

I thought I had earned it. I definitely lost it if I did. But, just between you me? I don't think everyone is capable of giving that kind of loyalty and dedication. OR, if they are, it takes the perfect fit.

The conversation turns back to the challenges of personality. This person fails this way. I have disappointed that. It's not ugly. But I start to defend and reason when I realize I am attempting to defend my own sanity.

and when we first set forth to convince others we are sane, we have lost.

So, I go into 'yes dear'. That trusty subroutine of letting it out. Someimtes you just need a wall to throw things at. Maybe a gym adn a punching bag would be a better solution.

Blue Honey

By 845, it's clear that this morning will require complete attention. Being gone so long, she's built up a need to tell me everything on her mind. She spent the week with her youngest sister. They were never teh best of friends. Loving each other? yes. But youngest is a bit of a control freak and doesn't have the patience my better half needs to thrive.

“Let's go to breakfast.” I suggest, and it is readily agreed. In short order we're driving around this little burg on a Sunday morning and realize quickly that options are limited. But the morning is beautiful and the drive enjoyable.

Some subjects we wade into a heavy. There is conversation about me and who I have become. Things I have done which she doesn't like and for which I cannot defend. And to try to just sounds like excuses. And when they don't they are painted that way regardless.

It's not fun. But I think it is necessary.

A week with her sister and a day with her Mom refreshes the old personality in which she was raised.

I reminder her that blue honey comes from somewhere.

“Blue honey?” she asks.

In North Carolina, there is a rare and strange phenomenon of beekeepers finding blue and purple honey in their hives. Not yellow blue or gold-blue. Bright rich colors of blue or purple.

They don't know for certain why it happens. A master beekeeper who directs the Native Bee Conservancy of Washington State, says that a lot of circumstantial evidence points to the inky-violet flower of the kudzu. But there's doubt because bees can't pierce the skin.

In at least one instance in France, a beekeeper found flourescent blue honey. Unnaturally blue. Investigation discovered that the bees ha found an open container of the blue dye used in M&M's at a candy factory. They were just drinking the blue syrup and creating gorgeous honey.

Probably NOT labeled 'organic', just 'cool'.

She stares at me blankly. “Aaaaand?”

“I'm just pointing out that the color of our person comes from somewhere. We are an amalgamation of our parents, our life, and those with whom we spend time.

Then the conversation turns to if I am depressed.

The point is missed and I am powerless to do little but feed her a burrito and coffee.

Coffee makes everything better. Even though it isn't blue.

Lest Ye Be Judged

We go to a meeting and discuss the future of the human race, God's hope that everyone listen to his commands. The speaker is squirrelly and has clearly failed to prepare adequately.

In the fist 10m of the 30 minute discourse, he asks the question “Why?”, more that 40 times. As a former public speaker, I know this loop: You have clever premise, you get stuck in it because you didn't prepare well enough and lose what comes next, so you keep repeating the 'clever' thing thinking it sounds like you're doing a bit, but really you're lost.

He was lost. Poor guy.

Then 22 minutes into his 30 minute outline, he just stops talking and walks off the stage. The audience was stunned. No clapping. Just crickets. We had no idea what was going on.

The following discussion was all about judging other people. The point was: everyone gets to make their own decisions, unless what they do is violating God's laws leave them to it. Try to make decisions that won't be too hard for others to accept.

My dear dear wife. She come from a very judgmental family. They have opinions about what EVERYONE should be or not be. It comes from Queen Bee Mom.

So we spend half an hour discussing what Jesus said in Matthew 19:13—'I want mercy, not sacrifice.'

Jesus came for the sinners, the broken, the disenfranchised. Not the shiny perfect righteous folks. So, every single one of us called to know God are some form of broken. Oh, we pretend to be better than that, but we're not. Try it long enough and you'll find out. You cannot be something you are not. You're going to give in to that which you desire most unless you trust God completely.

So those who 'do bad things' aren't wicked. Hell, they aren't even weak. They just get lost in the weeds of being a human being. They do very very human things. How terrible that we see those who fall short of God's standards and say they are somehow 'less' or 'bad' or, God forbid, 'wicked'.

Low sinks of debaucher are not where lovers of God get. They simply fail. make real mistakes that they may carry with them their whole lives. There's not need for us to remind them of the scars they carry.

Ask me how I know.

In fact, making some pretty hard pushes against God's boundaries has had some interesting personalty developments. I absolutely have WAY more compassion for those who can't meet those standards consistently.

Regardless, we just don't need to constantly point out how bad people are. They're not. They are just doing the BEST they can. It's possibly less best as us, maybe more.

But love lets us accept them.

Big ships turn slowly, but we'll get turned eventually to see one another with love and not judge them by their least appealing qualities.

Hell, some of my least appealing qualities are my ability to love other people. I don't want that to go away. I like it. And others like it in me.

YMMV.

Whiling

She is very tired. So we turn off the house and our lives and just lay in bed for the afternoon. She sleeps. I slip in and out, fighting against going in too deep. I don't want to flip my schedule back to up all nights.

So I have strange dreams talking to old friends an lost llamas. They are nonsensical and I don't think they mean anything.

After an hour, I decide it's time for some work. Get a head start.

But I fall down teh well of file-keeping and learning javascript. I don't need to. But I have a compelling desire to know how this stuff all works.

I break the site. Then I fix it.

Then I write.

Stolen Picasso Returned!

I read in the news this morning that an original Pablo Picasso etching which had been stolen from Milwaukee almost a decade ago had been returned. The owner reported that someone had simply walked in picked it off the wall and walked out of the gallery.

Worth about $50k it was gone for 8 years.

Then someone walked in with it to the police station adn gave it back.

Picasso in 1949.

Mars Ascends

A glorious night here in Texas Mars is shining bright overhead. The crickets are relaxed and the breeze is making it cool outside. It’s a spectacular night to sit out. I think we’ll make nachos and watch a movie. What movie though?

Cinderella Story – Hillary Duff

Everything's all wrong, yeah Everything's all wrong, yeah Where the hell did I think I was?

Link 0 — Day 60

And I'll be your crying shoulder, I'll be love's suicide And I'll be better when I'm older, I'll be the greatest fan of your life.

#deardiary

| | | |

Home | About | Full of Stars | Contact | HeartCartography

“May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching.” – The Lantern Keeper

“The Heart Wants what it Wants. But jumping out of a boat never seems wise.”

Jump to: Shinology | Drama of Eli | Un-Robbery | Vals Brother | Code Monkey | divorce

12p – Up All Night

Client work pinned until Monday, which means I have today and tomorrow to make it sing so I don’t get pinched again come 11:30 a.m.

I was so wound up, it took until after 5 to get sleepy.

Great morning sleeping!

Three hours of texting and phoning. OY VEY!

Someone died. Wife excited on last day of school. Someone having a mental breakdown. Someone wondering how I am. Someone wanting me to go somewhere. Someone worried about how to help someone else.

Eesh. This afternoon feels like emotional Cape Canaveral. I need a bunch of screens up showing the weather and the wants of all these minds.

Shin-ology

Shin sent this last night:

'I got tired of waiting for 'Body keeps the Score' on my library app so I bought cptsd: from surviving to thriving on Amazon Kindle. Only like 10 pages in but it's quite validating to read, I'd be curious to hear what you think if you feel inclined to check it out.

Here is an excerpt that I enjoyed, one of many: “This is a version of the time machine rescue operation that I use with myself as well as with my clients. I tell my inner child that, if time travel is ever possible, I will travel back into the past and put a stop to my parents’ abusiveness. In the course of this I say things like: “I’ll call 911. I’ll call CPS [Child Protective Services] on them. I will grab their arms and pin them behind their backs the second they try to strike you. I will muffle them with a gag so they can’t scream at you or even mumble their criticisms. I’ll put bags over their heads so they can’t frown or glare at you. I’ll send them to bed without dessert. I’ll do anything you want me to do to protect you.”

Also “Once the critic is reduced enough that you can notice increasing periods of your brain being user-friendly, impulses to help and care for yourself naturally begin to arise. As this happens it becomes easier to tell whether you are guiding yourself with love or a whip. When you realize it’s the whip, please try to disarm your critic and treat yourself with the kindness you would extend to any young child who is struggling and having a hard time.”

when i read this at like 230 in the morning, i read it as:

'I bought this book 'Surviving to Thriving on Amazon Kindle' and was very confused that the quotes somehow endorsed self publishing using amazon's Kindle Direct Publishing initiative.

The quotes make a lot of sense when today I read it as 'CPTSD: From Surviving to Thriving'

I have to say, I found that first quote about calling CPS on the parents pretty off putting. My hackles went up. Maybe I have a bit of the old Stockholm syndrome... maybe my parents weren't really that bad. But fore sure, I want time-traveler me to do no harm. I'd like him to sit down at the kitchen table in the dining room of the old house, the one with chandelier and the big picture window that looked out over the little patch that was supposed to be a garden. The one where I buried my duckling.

Sit down and tell my parents about the glory of the future. how beautiful and intelligent we'll all grow to be. That everything will be okay. That they don't' need to worry or fear. and that whatever demons they were fighting, they will be gone in time as well.

Turn off the TV. Play games together. Learn to laugh and tell jokes. Teach your children to trust. And learn to trust yourselves.

Poor Shin. Plagued with true genius, but not emotional stability. Sounds like someone else I know.

The Drama of Eli

Then there's Eli. OY!

“All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.” – Tolstoey

Eli Mercer is an old friend who's been through tremendous crisis. And still is. He just cannot seem to make sense of his life. His first marriage crashed and burned when drugs made them both miserable and she found solace in the bed of another man and he to 'teach her a lesson' went and found 4 beds.

His second. She seemed sweet. I'm sure Eli did too. But reality is everyone is broken in someway, and it sounds like two broken souls mated.

I spent an hour and a half trying to ground him. I welcome you to read the exchange. You know neither of us.

He's in crisis and feels like a victim. if Eli has one defining and unchanged characteristic, it is that he to quickly sees himself victimized. And in truth, he is a victim. He's not making it up. But, he allows himself to be in that position by trying to be kind and generous to the wrong people.

Friends. What can you do but love them. Proverbs 17:17 A true friend shows love at all times And is a brother who is born for times of distress.

Some days, everybody needs something from everybody else.

The Un-Robbery

I have friends who got married in their 60s. I've written of them before. And I have a friend who is an ex-con and not my favorite person. or at least he didn't used to be. (grammar, Jack?)

On their honeymoon, The excon, whom we'll call Stoney, house sat. Sitted? For them.

When they came home. Things were missing. And Stoney was the prime suspect.

Okay, now it gets good.

More to come.

Val's Brother

Another death. He was 79. Not completely out of the blue. But still. She's devastated at the loss and who can blame her. He was her jr by 4 years and she knew him her entire life. I do wish I had a lifelong sibling relationship. Maybe that's why I sought it in her? I truly wanted that closeness, that bond. The rest of it came like a tidal wave. Like that wave in that movie... I was thinking of 'Deep Impact – 1988 with Tea Leoni. But this Interstellar gif is so great. And the whole time dilation thing applies too.

Eesh, I lost the thread and made it about me. I feel or Val. Her husband said he cried harder than she did.

I've only known her for three years, but she has become very dear to me. I love her direct nature, not crass or unkind, but just no words minced. And she is VERY praising of my journal work.

I need to go see them and learn a little more about the brother. Maybe now is a good time for a visit.

I SHOULD NOT BE THIS EXCITED!

About HTML and Markdown language. The longer I work here, the more techincal I get. I really like writing these long pointless diaries. I don't have to keep stopping to publish articles. Thought I think I will pull from these for standalone pieces.

BUT: it' gets tiresome navigating these 9000 pixel long pages.

ENTER: in-page navigation. I'm pretty good with Markdown language at this point and it's one of my favorite things about write.as. It's what makes bold things bola and post photos and all kinds of stuff. Simple but powerful.

Some stuff though, you NEED html. And that's what I got here. All these buttons to subheads and going back to the top, simple, elegant html. That I wrote!

I are so smert!

Here's a screenshot since typing this stuff results in things you see differently. That text that say a id-“top”></a – that's what makes the top button work.

SUPERCOOL! And no one cares. Coders, as writers should remember, no one loves words as much as they do.

Yes, Jack Keeper think he may be closet code monkey.

His code not “functional” or “elegant” What do Code Monkey think?

Code Monkey like Fritos Code Monkey like Tab and Mountain Dew Code Monkey very simple man With big warm fuzzy secret heart: Code Monkey like you

Divorciversary — Day 60

It came.

It saw.

It kicked their ass.

Usually, when two people get divorced, it’s because they can’t stand to be around one another any longer.

But sometimes there are two souls who can’t stay away from each other, and divorce becomes a surrogate for walled gardens.

Tall walls. Walls that even sunlight cannot penetrate. No sound. No scent. Only the idea of one another can travel from one garden to the other.

Like drops of blood only the wounded can see, those ideas stain the landscape, blinding to almost everything except what once almost was.

'Hate what is bad', they said. 'Think of the children', they said. 'Love good', they said. And they did. Hated bad, thought of others, loved good. They did the work. But the thing that was unspoken was more powerful than two minds or hearts.

In spite of it all. They managed to keep the course. To be courageous. Not because of wisdom, but because of love.

Love was and is their guiding principle. Love is what now makes them strangers though they may know one another almost better than any other human being.

It is both choice and requirement.

In the case of these two, they served a higher purpose. A calling. A salvation.

And the choice was this:

A diminished self, and being right.

Or a full self, and being fully wrong in the eyes of their God. And breaking worlds.

You’d think this would be an easy choice.

But it would only be easy for those without hearts. With out real love.

For Wyst and Wlfw, today is their hurdle. Their hump.

In two and a half years, they couldn’t manage to go more than sixty days without a whisper of life passing between them.

There will be many more, no doubt.

But maybe they’ve finally turned that corner where their roads diverge.

No yellow wood.

No path less traveled.

Just different directions.

Or perhaps parallel.

But in between is that garden wall.

And for all intents and purposes, no matter how painful, distracting, or empty the absence feels, it is an impossible scenario.

Doomed from the start.

So why is it that human hearts yearn for the things they can never have?

Especially when they are already supplied with so much?

Maybe Bob was right.

The answer, my friend, is blowin’ in the wind.

Raise a glass with me, won’t you?

To the Buttercup and Dread Pirate Roberts.

Good night!

Well, faithful readers! It has been a good, busy week. But this Keeper is tired and in want of sleep. I suppose The Un-Robbery story will have to wait a day or two. Don't worry, it isn't going anywhere.

Good night and good luck!

Love and salutations from this indelible station to yours.

#deardiary

Home | About | Full of Stars | Contact | HeartCartography

“May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching.” – The Lantern Keeper

How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives.

Jump to: Missing Pieces Monster Slayer Veteran of the Psychic Wars The Small Hours of the Night 2AM Wisdom The Stars at Night

LATE 9am

Crashed at 2, planned to get up at 7. That came at 8. And now I'm 2h in on writing when I should be doing client work!

Why are you like this? You know life will be easier if you front load with what you HAVE to do and then do the rest of the stuff later. Good, lord man. Don't be such an idiot.

What do you know, reasonable half of my brain? I am heart... we chase butterflies.

Brain shakes head.

Wrote the lovey reminder that we are not things to be owned and used, but wonders to be beheld: Vineyards

A thing about Cats (retread), and a second treatise on how we are enough. Kenough, in fact..

And I have to STOP writing/rewriting my piece on wandering around Paris. I love this line from it:

Taxi ride back to the champs d' Elyse: A man his bike with a baguette—almost as French a thing as I can imagine.

Too much to do today. Skipped breakfast. But 'd

Missing Pieces

Okay, let's see. Looking for a a piece i wrote on a morning in Spain, and a poem about Antibes and Ireland. I got lost on the cliffs of Moher and had a super great essay. I really like writing here, but the file management is ridiculous.

As part of trying to be a human again, I'm combing through thousands of posts and thinking about balance writing honestly with hurting other people. I miss writing like everyone I know is dead. Maybe I'm just a raw nerve right now and in time, I'll have the courage and confidence to just let fly the dogs of love and war. Time will tell.

But writeas just doesn't have a search function. It requires downloading the entire blog, converting it to a spreadsheet and searching through 2300+ entries! Using #tags is pretty useful, but I am just not consistent.

After cataloguing (THAT'S a weird-looking word) I don't think I've ever seen all of my pieces listed in one place before. And this doesn't include the several hundred that I off-lined entirely, nor the other blogs I host—though those are mostly retreads of what I write here, the well-spring of my very very questionable genius.

Some personal favs:

The Economy of Tears Tidepool of Memory Holding Dams The Folded Man The Walled Garden The Place Where We Are Right The Storm Beneath The Water Between Us What Blossoms in Our Wake Rosy-Breasted Tide Runner

I was suprised over 500 were untitled. Very unlike me, but this is a massive body of work. My greedy Mister Burns wants to know how to monetize it. My heart just doesn't care.

The point is the work. Not what it gives you. Do the work. Build it and they will come. At least with writing, you don't need a mansion to store the massive paintings that are stacked all over my house.

Marching order 12p

Okay! Digging in and cranking out the work. It'll be a long day, but we'll get it all done, Keeper. Trust the process!!

Words of Wisdom

Stand firm . . . with the belt of truth fastened around your waist.​—Eph. 6:14.

This commandment that I am commanding you today is not too difficult for you, nor is it beyond your reach.​—Deut. 30:11.

💜My copilot, my parter, my journeywoman💜 I wish she understood her potential.

Call me Jack Keeper. I keep the little moments. The quiet sounds. The gentle recollections. They live in my books and smell of salt and spice. Because no lighthouse keeper can exist without a cable knit sweater and a decent bottle of whiskey to accompany his library and games.

Some days the bear eats you...

Stress stress stress... hurry hurry hurry. The client LOVES everything... then THEIR client sees it and goes....eeeeerrrrrrr. Could we do it three different colors?

Sigh.

I mean! AWESOME! That's another week's worth of work! I gotta tell you, I don't deserve it. I should be homeless and eating out of a garbage can. But here I am. Paying my bills and eating regularly.

I do have to say. I was def stressed before the 5p checkin. Photoshop was just dying on me all day long. Of course I'm throwing 6 files weighing in north of 10gb each. For you non-digital creatives out there: Your average high resolution photograph is going to weigh in at about 2-5 mb compressed. that's a factor of about 2000. All opened at the same time each file with north of 100 layers.

They're monsters.

And, it seems, i am a monster slayer!

Okay, stress is off. Just have to make the giant fake beach I illustrated to look real pink and yellow instead of purple.

Listening to Veteran of the Psychic Wars

SUCH a great song!

“Veteran Of The Psychic Wars”

You see me now a veteran of a thousand psychic wars I've been living on the edge so long Where the winds of limbo roar And I'm young enough to look at And far too old to see All the scars are on the inside I'm not sure that there's anything left to me

You ask me why I'm weary, why I can't speak to you You blame me for my silence say It's time I changed and grew But the war's still going on, dear, and there's no end that I know And I can't say if we're ever... I can't say if we're ever gonna be free

The voice of a weary soul bleating for his/her suffering to end. As if they'd fought all the wars that had ever been fought. And we're a lot like that when we're going through hell. Every day feels like it will be the day that grinds you into dust.

But wounds become scars, armor grows rusty and victories and loses become only stories we tell our grandchildren.

Not romantizing but capturing the weariness of the endless slog the days sometimes feel like.

The writer should have gotten a beehive and just sat and watched them g about their business. If one worker dropped dead, she dies a happy bee having performed her intended purpose to the fullest degree.

Perhaps that is where the frustration comes from: being imperfect, we can NEVER fullfill our intended purpose to the fullest degree.

Been living in the flames Been eating out or brains.

Small Hours of the Night

1:17 am

Work is shelved for the weekend. It was just too much to deliver today. So we'll start again on Monday. I heroed all I could hero, but in the end, the client wants what they want. And their a drug company, so they can just throw money at a thing until it's there. Who knows, maybe I've got six months of work?

That'd fix my debt wagon.

So, what does a poor boy do at 1am on a Friday night in Dust Merdian?

Go cow tipping, of corse!

Haha!

Well, I stopped drinking. And I stopped bothering a clever soul on the other side of the the universe, so my options are: Sleep Art Entertainment

I SHOULD for for sleep.

But I opt for art. There's writing to do! There are sketchbooks to fill and paintings that need painting.

First top. pop down the corner store for a drink and some people watching.

I went a night or two ago about this time and it was filled with morlock men of my own persuasion: middle-aged, sans a female partner and wide awake in the tiny hours of night. Only I'd like to think I walked with purpose and good posture. Those poor fellows looked like hollowed out tree trunks.

A stiff storm would crack them to dust.

But Friday night... no Friday's a different here.

Pulling in to the QT, right off of the interstate, nearly every fuel pump has a vehicle with travel gear: a jeep with extra fuel canisters and a rooftop tent, a dodge caravan with luggage strapped on top, a Bronco with a bullet shaped cargo carrier on top and a bicycle rack filled with carbon frames in the rear.

Through the glass I see the flash of way too much breast. A young woman is wearing a top that leaves little to the imagination.

Once inside, out of the corner of my eye, I see she has three friends.

As a man of a certain age, I make a conscious effort not to stare, lear or even do more than the passing glance if they happen through my eye line. I am not ashamed to admit that I can appreciate a beautiful woman.

But gas stations on a Friday night are not the place for admiration. Where is? Dressed as they are? Life drawing, museums and anatomical studies. Where these young ladies are headed, doing anything more will only arrive in trouble squared and tripled, cubed and more. Julienned.

This is evidenced by the reaction of the other males in the space. It is quite busy and a dozen or so unaccompanied men linger about their business, I see one head then another and another turn in the direction of the gaggle of lasses. One man in particular makes a stage show out of his leering. Craning his neck and nearly walking into the slurpy machine as he tracks the girls across the floor.

Men. We are such big fat retards.

And predictable.

This is one of my favorite things to do: watching other men react to circumstances like this. They are clownish buffoons on the best of days, and sex, the idea of sex or the possibility of it makes them into drooling idiots.

Though me thinks this fellow is much lower on the evolutionary tree than his companions. His dress is deplorable—a pair of weirdly tight stonewashed jeans hanging midway between his thigh and his knees, ballooning blue and red boxers and a shirt with skulls and cigarettes. His shoes are untied and he has a black belt with metal studs.

This is probably a very special outfit for him. I think it is special in the same way that circus clowns wear special outfits.

The store clerks are oblivious to it all. This parade of tomfoolery. The girls, the boys, what they are wearing or who is looking at whom. They see thousands of people every day and even the most die-hard man watcher would grow weary of the constant parade.

As I exit, I see the tables are all occupied with various homeless. They do not live here, but they enjoy the good light, the clean tables and the safety. If i had to guess, they inhabit the abandoned warehouse next door. It isn't much to look at, but I'm sure if you'e got nowhere else to go, it's a palace.

The table denizens, like the clerks are indifferent to the girls as they chirp and cackle their way to the little sedan in which they all ride. The leering man says something to them out of my earshot. By their reaction, I don't think it was a welcome compliment.

The drive home is peaceful. The windows are down, the hot summer air refreshing and the stars twinkling vibrantly in this crystal clear night. I miss the moon. The lat time I had time to sit outside at night, we had a full moon. How quickly it cycles out.

A lot of things in life are this way. Filling the night sky of our lives, growing and then slowly diminishing, then, suddenly without realizing, gone!

As with the moon though, life is a cycle. It never stays dark for long.

2am

The air smells of smoke. There is a grass fire somewhere. It's the middle of august, so no one's burning a fireplace tonight.

It is a pleasant hot this morning. The kind of heat that would be perect for camping. I wish I was camping tonight. Sitting by the ocean, or a lake and listen to the crickets and frogs.

Scraping the days grime from under my nails and dreaming of running through the woods with a pack of wolves—or—wild hogs more likely.

The Stars

The stars tonight. They are calling my name. OH! How'd I'd like to break free from the bonds of gravity and just GO.

I read an article about Steven Spielberg's 'Hook' (1991) and how it is both beloved and a confusing mess of a film. The part I took away from the piece was the filmmaker's fascination with staying young and flight. It pointed out how nearly every film he's made is either about flight or has planes as a central story element.

I immediately think of those WW2 era transport planes superimposed over a map or globe in the Indiana Jone's films. Or that the boys all take flight on their bicycles in E.T.

According to the essay, this changed after Hook. We got films, 'serious' films. Stuff like Schindler's List, Amistad, Saving Private Ryan (planes in this one), AI, Minority Report, Catch me (planes), Terminal (planes), Munic, Bridge of Spies...

His last two: Fablemans and Disclosure Day are very non-flight.

So, mostly checks out.

The realization that wanting to fly is a common desire simultaneously excited me and made me realize I'm just a little less special than I thought I was.

That's probably a commonality as well.

Still, I wish I could fly. I always have.

A friend gave me a pretty nice reflecting telescope a few weeks ago. Tonight is a perfect night to set it up and see if I can find Saturn or Jupiter. Mars is fun to look as well.

But, when I check the star guide, I realize they're already over the horizon, or not up yet. I decide to wait for the moon. I haven't dialed in a telescope in years. Best to not start with some vague tiny point of light.

I want to sit and write all night long.

But. Maybe it's time for rest.

Do stuff. Be clenched, curious. Not waiting for inspiration's shove or society's kiss on your forehead. Pay attention. It's all about paying attention. Attention is vitality. It connects you with others. It makes you eager. Stay eager. —Susan Sontag

#deardiary

Home | About | Full of Stars | Contact | HeartCartography

“May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching.” – The Lantern Keeper

The sea loved the land, and the land loved the sea. A beautiful tragedy, which is why we all love the beach. It is where we can watch the almost of those two beautiful creatures.

8am

Good MORNING, SUNSHINE!

Have I told you that's my favorite greeting? There's a few. But that one's great!

Note: not enough sleep.

4 images to finissh in teh next three hours. So no time to appreciate spider webs, bathing birds or other little details I've seen a million times but somehow are brand new every one.

Garden grows well, I can see that from my window. I need to clean these windows. But I'll have tot rim this rose bush first.

It never ends. I also need to fix the eave on the porch.

Thursday! Howd i get here so quickly.

Okay. a little groggy. eyes are a little crispy, but lets get to work. Gotta make a pink dinosaur match. :-D

Brush, floss, read, pray.

There's a T'shirt for that! I'll remember this in 3 hours when I run out of time.

Priorities, man! What is WRONG with you!!!!!!

13:30

Making good progress on my project. Clients say, 'they look good'. Which is nervous. That means they aren' t looking-looking at them.

17:00

holy moly this project is brutal! Retouch retouch retouch. too pinnk, not pink enought. Smooth, add noise. WOW!

19:00

My brain is melting. CLient is only now sendign feedback to Tuesday's submissions. The problem: have done two rounds since then. PLUS they gave me wrong source, so i get to do a couple of them again. :–)

I am not feeling whimsical. I am tired. :–/ Need a nap.

Need dinner.

Starving.

22:00 Buger was lame. Miss my partner. Her meals always make the house smell amaaaazing!

Spent an hour on the phone. That was fun. We never just talk on the phone like kids anymore. Mostly because we're rarely more than 50' from each other. She stopped working in 2020, and work from a home studio. We worship together, eat together, read together... together together together.

Maybe it'll be good to spend a few days apart. Absence making the heart fonder and all.

We're both exhausted though. I could hear it in her voice. She's of an age where sitting and paying attention for 8 hours takes more energy than she's got. Then again, maybe she isn't sleeping enough. I'm sure not.

I'm learning my project is going to stretch out through the end of next week. Great! Getting closer to buying back all that borrowed cash for Europe.

Then we can do it alllll again! Hahaha! JK, I think our next big adventure will be driving around the United states in our swanky DIY camper van. We have friends in TX, FL, NC, VA, MD, NY, ME, IL, OH, WI, MT, ID, WA, CA, NV and NM that we need to see. hahahah. I DOUBT we'll make it that kind of trip.

a while back i started putting destination stickers on magnetic sheets and cutting them out. it' wonderful, I slap those on anything metal. We have a metal sign on teh wall of the van where I put them. It's better than sticking them, if we remodel or sell van, we can always keep our little tokens of travel.

She's a sweet woman. I hope she's game for six weeks on the road. I am. Beach, mountains, beer and friends. I'm really looking forward to seeing Winslow Homer's studio in Maine. And seeing covered bridges again. IDK why they're so romantic... but fall leaves and a covered bridge are like catnip.

Okay enough goofing off, Keeper. Get to work.

You may have noticed, i'm working on a rebrand. I've been writing with intent for about 10 years, seriously for the last 5. I am thinking a great deal about what I like to write and why: the details everyone else takes for granted, or ignores.

The old man at the airport. The way the light peaks through the window and makes dust motes glow. The distant rumble of a train deep in the middle of the night. How toast, when it's done right, feels the way it sounds. A sparkling laugh.

Because that's where miracles exist. Not the spectacular or the lavish.

The small, the unimportant.

It's born out of a love of the Creator. no matter how big or how small He made a thing it has purpose and it has beauty.

What better things could there be to observe, record and upon which to build stories?

Ten years ago I stood at Portland Head in Cape Elizabeth on a freezing morning with no one else around.

It was the sort of morning that convinces most people to stay home by the fire and let the Atlantic rage unwitnessed.

So, I found myself bleary-eyed and goose-fleshed, and marveling at the absolute power on display. Watching the break against the stone was like watching a blacksmith smashing his hammer against the anvil in the act of creation.

And I'll never forget it.

I have a friend who collects people, a skill I enjoy practicing as well, but my real passion is collecting moments. And the Head was a moment collected and stored in my mind and in my books. Maybe one day someone will leaf through these pages and see the world a little differently. Come to know the world the way I do. Maybe not.

I won't love it any less in any regard.

I've written many times about the power of water and the indelibility of stone. How two such disparate things seem inextricably connected. The water breaking constantly and never failing, while the stone seems indelible but is just as fluid as the water. Just on a much, much longer timeline.

This slice of existence so many missed is the point. I am fascinated by it. And by extension, the myth of the lighthouse and what it represents:

Patient watchfulness. Putting the needs of the greater good first. Unshakeable sturdiness in the face of tremendous power. A watchful eye that focuses its beam not so much to see inasmuch as for others to see it.

And not everyone cares about the lighthouse. But for those who do, it is an incredible feature. One they seek any time they are at sea and the weather begins to seethe and boil.

I like the idea of a lighthouse keeper. A lone figure, maybe with a single parter, in the odd structure, filled with books and puzzle and pens and paper. Whiling the days away between trips up the long spiral staircase with whimsy and story. Music that one can play as loudly as they like and the neither the seagulls nor the surf would ever complain.

Perhaps, this old writer will one day find himself in a real lighthouse an the romance of the idea will be quenched with reality as cold as the Atlantic waters that pounded the Head.

For the time being, I'll suffice to call myself a keeper and we'll call this blog the lantern room. High above the turmoil of life, quiet and safe from the roil and boil. Maybe you listen to music while you read my words. It's possible they give you some comfort, or insight. Or maybe you just need something to take your mind off of the hoy paloy of the day to day.

Whatever the case, you, dear reader, are always welcome here at the top of my staircase. Stay as long as you like, read all my books and, given the chance, I'll brew. you a nice cup of warm tea and you can tell me about your hopes, your dreams and the grand adventure that is your own life.

WELCOME TO THE LANTERN ROOM, I am your Keeper.

0100am CST

I think that's just about enough goofing off for one day, don't you? Tomorrow will bring a new dawn and more client work. I had planned to call it an early night, but no one loves words as much as a writer does.

Until we next meet, oh lover of words, I bid you a good night.

The Keeper's Blessing:

May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching.

#deardiary #thelanternkeeper #about

2026-08-06 00:00:00

Afterward

Is it better to be the missed, or the missed?

We are usually both.

Is it better to be missed, or to be the one who misses?

To live in another’s silence, or carry theirs inside your own?

The truth is, we are usually both—

a ghost in someone else’s room, and a room still haunted.

Home | About | Full of Stars | Contact | HeartCartography

“May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching.” – The Lantern Keeper

Some chapters turn quickly, others take time. Big ships are like that.

7:45 – sleep

8:45 – sleeeeep

9:45 – sleeeeeeeeep

10:45 – I guess it's time to embrace the world.

No headache today! That's a WIN!!! Tired... but eight hours of sleep after a week of three and four, yeah, I bet I ache.

Shave Brush Floss Shower

I am a human being again. No stress today. Client work is all topped to the point of dialing in details. Out for revision and waiting for feedback.

Uhp! There's feedback. These guys are voracious!

11:30 – Client meeting

which is me smiling at camera and typing typing typing my own thing Mostly them directing the animators. Glad I'm not an animator on this project. LOTS of tiny tweaks. I never was a finish carpenter. Odd that I ended up polishing posters for a living.

Rough ideation is both the most satisfying and the most frustrating thing I've ever done.

12:00 – 2nd Client meeting

Nothing to report. Just checking in to say, we'll call if we have work. This client is like that. They want to maintain the relationship. Which, good for me!

12:30 – Lunch with my nephew (SL). He's a troubled soul seeking his contentment. We talk for a long time about his successes and discuss why his cousin, CD (my other nephew) isn't faring better spiritually.

My assessment is that CD just has a streak in his heart that makes him want to choose selfish goals. It didn't help that the personalities in the congregation are some of the most distancing I've ever met. Strange. We are supposed to be friends.

Burger is lackluster and missing veggies. At $7 for a drink fries and a burger, I don't really expect much I am disappointed until SL tells me his wife has this dreaded gut bacteria and I think maaaaaybe I should avoid eating out for a while. It does not sound fun.

Conversation drifts to rebuilding engines, time with our fathers, how one swear word (horseshit) in Spider-man Brand New day made him clench because he'd taken his 9 year old son to see it. It made my great-nephew burst out laughing. They DEF do not miss a thing.

personally, I'd be more concerned with the level of violence. But, that's me. I'm a bit more sensitive to that after learning to beat the living hell out of my sisters watching tom and jerry and bugs and daffy.

2pm – writing.

I'm really procrastinating. But I WANT TO WRITE! I'm revising old posts for re-introduction. I'm in the process of rebuilding 5 years of writing. Very close to a million words.

Cull.

Cull.

Cull.

My tens of readers are such hungry children. haha.

Everyone wants to be read by millions. My aspirations are MUCH much much lower. Single digits is fine with me.

3pm – okay enough for now. Client work.

I need SOME Progress for our 5pm checking call. So far, feeling great. Hydrated and making plans to rebrand my writing logo and just try to be as positive about the future as circumstances. Allow.

There's enough love in me to keep giving it away. Why should I spend my days worrying? Just be kind to those I can be.

I made notes on my shower-pontifications that I want to expand on as well. To come today:

Trey and Aleen and Knox – The theft accusaions and fallout.

Marriage and being made in God's eyes (why the chemical explosion?)

And about 7 other things I forgot to write down.

No dreams to intpret though... so I'll have to make something g up.

Decided to move away from zero day numbering here. Dates writing as YYMMDD look so cool and coded, but they're just the date. Maybe too overblowd to refer to them as stardates!

Stardate: 260826

Why note? It's my playground!

5P checkin went er, okay. A TON to do and lacking motivations! OY! Get with the program!! The end is near—and there's 8 more images on top to do.

:–/

Fan. Tastic.

11pm

It's time for a fresh start and a fresh look. Work is going well. So is the blog. Onward and upward, to the end!

#deardiary

Home | About | Full of Stars | Contact | HeartCartography

“May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching.” – The Lantern Keeper

The sun rises, and so morning has a way of forgiving yesterday.

7:45

Headache wakes the artist at 6am. It is time for him to make the donuts. But exhausted, he tries to sleep more and manages to struggle with the physical battle that every morning brings, the headache, worry, and awe.

Awe because he knows in less than an hour, glory welcomes him and all men in his particular place.

At 7:30, he finally manages to overcome the weight of the sheer cover and stumbles out to marvel through the bleariness of the night.

The headache has not abated.

But it is forgotten for a moment as the artist marvels at the spider web glistening in the growing morning light. Spider webs are a special kind of beauty. Art meets function. Useful, but never permanent. Which is odd when we live in this world of dichotomy: everything made is disposable, but our homes are filled with detritus we call treasure and with which cannot bear to part.

But the spider, she works to spin her glory (and could care less if we marvel or not), knowing that tomorrow, she'll do it all again.

In the background, the bees are already hard at work, zinging SSE to drink and collect and do their work.

And the artist smiles at the dense green forest that's grown between his own porch and the fence, giving him a quiet spot without the nosy neighbors watching him in his own glory soaking up the sun's rays to start his day.

A moment he loves.

The final moment of his reverie finds pleasure in the dense thicket of sunflowers growing behind the yard. He ignored the growth outside the fence all spring, inviting the terrestrial creatures to find solace there, a little too close to home perhaps, but now, eight- and ten-foot-tall sunflowers dance heliocentrically in the morning wind, ignored by the bees who seem to have grown tired of plants.

But this artist never will.

8:24

I'm hydrated, showered and ready for work. 3 hours to get 4 hours done.

Let's see if I can concentrate when all i want to do is write and draw.

Alas! Life requires these dull moments so that we may exist for the real spectacle to have its place.

11:00a

First client show in 30. ONLY I am not nearly where I want be. Sigh. Story of the production artist's life: Never enough time. NEver.

A glass of water and a cookie is my reward.

realzing now I had a dreamless sleep. Strange. Lately my dreams have been very vivid and interesting. No doubt it's the lack of sleep that's screwing things up.

12:20

Eh, client show went okay. Prefer them to gush and say APPROVED! But more realistically, change change change. Doesn't mean my work is bad, just the nature of the beast.

Hard push the rest of hte day to show to client's client tonight.

Poor Ferdinand... he's got to pull the plow... no sitting and smelling flowers today.

Plus, this stupid headache. At least it's just low grade annoying now and not distracting.

For sure... I hope I can unplug from work tonight and do something else. Draw. I think I'd like to draw tonight. Like a REAL drawing. Serious draftsmanship... I usually just dash off sketches, but I think I'll sit with a subject for an hour or two and dial in.

For now though: Pixel warriors HO!

1:10 – Frustration

The mind is... it's the most complicated thing in teh universe. So, please tell me then why it CANNOT control my heart?

Sigh.

2:12 – Lunch

Okay, I was going to fast today, but don't think I'm giong to make it. I am desperate for a salad with cranberry and walnuts.

2:34 – Analysis in my inbox

What I Learned About You

I spent some time reading through what you uploaded. This isn't just a collection of blog posts—it's a long record of how you think, grieve, observe, and construct meaning.

The biggest thing I learned might surprise you.

You're not primarily a storyteller.

You're a meaning-maker.

Stories are your delivery mechanism, but your real impulse is to answer the question:

“What does this reveal about being human?”

Almost every piece eventually pivots there.

An argument with your mother-in-law becomes a meditation on trauma and misunderstanding. A coal train becomes industrialization and alienation. A perfect day under a van becomes a meditation on fathers and inheritance. A widow's grief becomes a meditation on love's price.

That pattern repeats constantly.

You don't write from the head.

Observe—First you notice.

Heart—Then comes connection.

Your writing process seems almost observational.

It goes something like:

Here's a train.

Here's the sound it makes.

Here's what it reminds me of.

Here's why that matters.

Here's what that says about civilization.

Or

Here's a little girl refusing milk.

Here's the woman she became.

Here's what perseverance looks like.

Here's why marriage matters.

You trust images before conclusions.

This is a rare quality in writers.

You are deeply pattern-driven.

You constantly connect things that don't obviously belong together.

Examples:

• baseball → childhood → 1924 → consumer culture
• moonlight → forgotten dreams → identity
• drawers → black holes → memory
• coal trains → electricity → love songs
• grief → geography → healing
• wolves → generosity → wealth traps

That's not random association.

It's associative thinking.

You seem to live there.

You think in metaphors before facts.

Some people explain.

You compare.

Examples that stuck with me:

“How do you fold a flood and put it in a drawer?”

“We're building a bridge across a chasm and laying the road as we go.”

“Speeding through the universe on our biosphere.”

Those aren't decorative.

They're how your brain works.

You are relentlessly compassionate.

Even when someone behaves badly...

...you immediately wonder why.

The mother-in-law isn't “crazy.”

She's ashamed.

The grieving widower isn't weak.

He's carrying 45 years.

A wife isn't difficult.

She's shaped differently.

Again and again, you're trying to understand before judging.

You are fascinated by ordinary moments.

This might be the strongest recurring trait.

Not mountains.

Not wars.

Not dragons.

Instead:

• drawing circles on your wife's back
• leaves scraping pavement
• a coal train
• a piano in a mall
• hot tubs
• baseball games
• a quarter moon
• somebody humming
• the importance of naming things

Most writers think they need extraordinary events. You seem convinced that ordinary life is already miraculous. The boring becomes spectacle.

You're right.

You write like someone terrified of forgetting.

This appears everywhere.

Letters.

Memories.

Dreams.

Conversations.

Children that never existed.

Friends moving away.

Grief.

You preserve moments almost like an archivist.

Not because you're nostalgic.

Because you're trying to rescue them from oblivion.

The letter to Lorien and Seren is perhaps the clearest example of this impulse.

Your greatest strength

Observation.

You notice tiny human details most people skip.

Like this:

nobody stuffing the car door with trash anymore

That one detail says more about a marriage than paragraphs of exposition.

Or:

drawing a spiral on her back

That instantly tells me decades of intimacy.

Those details are gold.

Your weakness

You sometimes explain after you've already won.

This happened enough that I noticed a pattern.

You'll write an absolutely devastating image...

...and then explain what it means.

Example structure:

Beautiful image.

↓

Another beautiful image.

↓

Reader understands.

↓

Paragraph explaining the lesson.

You trust readers enough to notice details.

I think you should trust them just a little more to discover the meaning.

Ironically, your poems often do this naturally.

Your essays less so.

You're two writers.

One writes prose.

One writes poetry.

The poet is stronger.

Not because the poetry is technically better—

because it forces restraint.

When you're writing poems like 98.44 Feet Per Second, 728, or A Letter to the Twins, you stop explaining and simply present experience. Those pieces carry an emotional charge that lingers precisely because they leave space for the reader.

The surprise

You repeatedly describe yourself as someone who worries he isn't good enough.

Then I read hundreds of pages where you make other people feel seen.

That isn't a coincidence.

Your writing isn't trying to impress.

It's trying to witness.

There's a line you quoted:

“To be fully seen by someone, and be loved anyhow...”

I think that's the organizing principle behind almost everything you write.

Not beauty.

Not language.

Not philosophy.

Seeing people.

Then making them feel they were worth seeing.

If I had to place you on a bookshelf...

Not because you sound like these writers, but because you share their concerns:

• Annie Dillard — noticing the sacred in ordinary experience.
• John O'Donohue — treating everyday life as spiritually meaningful.
• Frederik Backman — deep compassion for flawed people.
• Mary Oliver — attentive observation as a moral practice.

One more thing

Earlier you asked,

“What kind of writer am I?”

After reading this, I don't think that's the most interesting question.

The more interesting one is:

What are you trying to preserve?

Because nearly everything here feels like an act of preservation.

Of love. Of fleeting moments. Of people. Of conversations. Of grief. Of faith. Of the version of yourself you're afraid to lose.

Your writing often feels less like performance than like building a memory palace against time.

If I had to describe your work in one sentence, it would be:

You write so that what mattered doesn't disappear.

| | |

The Storm Song

Inspired by my post 'Butterflies' and Led Zeppelin's The Rain Song

One note on the poetry of this: 4 years ago I discovered the Rain Song and it changed my understanding and appreciation of LZ. I started listening to them for the first time. A song about rain.

Two years after that, i wrote an essay about resting butterflies. Today its DNA found a way into lyrics for a song.

Sometimes the music shared soul to soul keeps growing after it leaves our hands... and enters our hearts.

The Storm Song

Verse 1 An umbrella big enough for two Held it up and over everyone loved Pretending I wasn't getting soaked through While the rain came falling from above

Kept walking, moving, my head held up high But crushed wings need time to mend Even angels have to land from time to time Every river has it's bend

Chorus

So let the storm come Let the thunder call my name I am not broken I am just learning how to change

Butterflies can't fight the rain So they find a place to hide Waiting for the sun To open up and shine

Verse 2

Built a garden out of all our yesterdays Planted memories too precious to let go And the things that once could break me Become the roots that let my spirit grow

No past should be a prison But a shine that lights the dark Every scar a little window And our wounds a little spark

Bridge

When our forest burns It lets a richer forest grow And when the river cuts It too has to slow Every time it feels like the end The weather's just making room For something new to bloom

Final Chorus

So let the storm come We don't have to run away We don't have to drown We'll just hold and await the day

When the clouds give back the sky And the rain becomes our song Not gone, we stretch our wings high, They were just resting all along

10pm... Dear diary... it's been a day.

Off to dine.. yikes. that's too late. Maybe a little more writing now that client has shipped. Def don't want another 3am tonight...

Hmmmm, what to say... maybe a little navel-gazing.

11:53 – Another day where no moment is wasted. I'll split the rest of this into it's own essay. It's more reflective I do love a good navel) and less day-reportage.

![If you'd like to continue reading, you can find the rest of this walk in my mind

Part 2 of all of this!

#deardiary #song #music #confession

Home | About | Full of Stars | Contact | HeartCartography

“May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching.” – The Lantern Keeper